


Amalfi

by colonelkepler



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: And Not At All A Chance To Date Jacobi, At Most If Not All Times, Fake Marriage, Jacobi Freaking The Hell Out, Kepler Pretending This Is Definitely Professional, M/M, Mutual Pining, Tax Free, You Know I Had To Do It To Em
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-09-20 02:22:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9471203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colonelkepler/pseuds/colonelkepler
Summary: What looked like a standard stakeout turns out to be one of the most memorable missions Jacobi has ever undergone, and the closest he'll ever get to a romantic getaway. Plus, too many seafood cafes, approximately zero opportunities for fiery explosions, the holy lobby desk, and getting put out in the stable.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> my first real fanfic, and honestly the first thing i've written in a long ol' time. i'm a slut for kepcobi and i don't usually go for fake marriage things but i had to do this. i had to. don't expect sex and don't expect chapter sizes that match each other, i am unable to provide either of these things :(

Jacobi had never heard of Amalfi before the mission file fell onto his desk. Following a quick, curious Google search, he discovers that there’s not much to hear about. A tiny coastal town, Southern Italy; too many seafood cafes for its own good; one or two museums to stand as testaments to its past as – well, he doesn’t know, something more than a tiny coastal town. Jacobi flips through the file with increasing boredom evident on his face, feeling Kepler’s amusement at his reaction while he waits.

'Exciting, no?' The Colonel still sounds amused, and Jacobi slowly pulls his gaze away from the paper in front of him to fix his superior with a deadpan stare. 'It’s a stakeout, sir.' He tries not to sound like he’s whining, but Kepler knows damn well how he feels about stakeouts. 'Do you know how many opportunities there are for fiery explosions in a stakeout? Approximately zero.'

'Not _everything_ is about fiery explosions, Mr Jacobi –' Kepler begins, pausing with a brief grin at the horrified gasp that he receives from Jacobi. '– and sometimes, you have to do the missions you don’t like. It’s a beautiful place. Treat it like a vacation.'

'This is one of the… nicer stakeout missions, I guess,' is the sad acquiescence from Jacobi. He doesn’t mention that people usually get some _sleep_ on their vacations, and spend their time floating in a pool rather than watching a target. He's tried to teach Kepler the ways of a normal human being who takes normal vacations, more times than he can count, and it's never worked. He's not about to try again. At the very least, he can count on the Colonel to provide decent alcohol – the only aspect of a good vacation that Kepler will ever truly understand. The acceptance gets him another smile from his superior, grateful, as though he was going to give Jacobi a choice in this matter.

-

The file neglected to mention two things.

One, they were to leave in two days. It’s not like Jacobi needs time to pack his things – Goddard Futuristics tends to deal with all the mission preparation for you, either because they don’t want to make you do that work or they don’t trust you to do it – but some warning is always appreciated. The warning he does receive is about an hour before he’s expected to meet Kepler just outside the entrance to Goddard HQ, and it comes in the form of a sudden call from a weirdly-alert Colonel, ordering him to hurry the hell up or they’ll miss their flight.

Two, it takes a _long_ time to get to Amalfi. Between driving to Orlando, waiting in the airport, catching an eleven-hour flight, and getting on a train to the town itself (because Kepler didn’t feel like driving, the asshole), whatever life Jacobi still nurtured in his soul is dead and gone. By the time they get to the tiny hotel that matches the tiny town, Jacobi feels as though he is dragging his lifeless body alongside his suitcase, and the receptionist looks to him like the keeper of the holy grail. Colonel Kepler, of course, looks as alive and awake as ever, as if the thirteen-hour trip was nothing more than a ten minute walk down the block. Jacobi's beginning to question if the man ever actually sleeps in the first place.

He feels a hand gently land on his and jolts a little, before his suitcase is being pulled from his grip and he realises that Kepler is taking it. He looks round from where his eyes have been fixed on that holy lobby desk, and in the moment his eyes meet his superior’s, he decides he hates Colonel Kepler.

As if reading his mind, the corner of Kepler’s mouth quirks up in a half-smile. 'Do you want to check us in? Or do you want me to do everything for you?'  
Jacobi knows he should be saying ‘oh, of course, sir, I’m sorry, sir, thank you for taking my suitcase, sir, I’ll check us right in, sir,’ and he does try to say that, but somehow, all that comes out is – 'Sleep.'  
'I’m doing everything, then.' Kepler turns away from him, briskly walking over to the holy lobby desk and letting go of the suitcases so he can produce a credit card out of nowhere. Jacobi’s only half paying attention, drowsily making his way over to the desk to join Kepler while he checks the two of them in.

He’s caught the Colonel and the receptionist in the middle of a conversation. 'It’s alright,' Kepler says, with a smile and a snatch of laughter that you could even consider genuine, if you didn’t know him like Jacobi knows him. 'Our fault for arriving so late. We’ll take whatever you’ve got.'  
'Wha…' Words are still a struggle, and every sound is coming through to Jacobi vaguely muffled, but that doesn’t sound good. 'We getting put out in the… stable?'  
That earns a giggle from the woman behind the desk, though Jacobi’s not certain whether it’s at his joke, or the fatigue with which he delivered it. 'Not even close. There’s just – no singles. I wasn’t sure if that’d be a problem, I can’t tell if you’re… here on business, or…'  
'No, no,' Kepler says quickly – with another laugh, another flash of a smile, and a glint in his eyes that Jacobi’s just a little too tired to fully register – 'we’re married.'

It takes all the strength Jacobi has left to refrain from choking on air.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jacobi is tired, annoyed, confused, and tired. Kepler is Kepler. The lads finally set up to start their actual mission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i TOLD y'all i was a slow writer. but hey this is here. i don't know if you can tell, but some Actual Plot will come into play next chapter, where the boys will do something that's not hotel-oriented. i can't tell if i'm a slow burn type or not at this point

_‘Married?’_

Jacobi’s body is still dragging him downwards, as if the bed has its own gravitational pull, but he can’t sleep. Not while Kepler is still awake, back facing him, leisurely pushing their suitcases into a corner, starting to unpack – and not freaking out over the way he just said they were married. Kepler pauses to glance back at Jacobi, who hopes his fatigue makes him look even more appalled.

‘I panicked.’ It didn’t _look_ like panicking, thinks Jacobi, seeing the ghost of a smile flit across Kepler’s face. The Colonel turns his back again, and starts passing clothes back to Jacobi – who makes sure to snatch every single one. His obvious irritation doesn’t seem to bother Kepler. Jacobi knows it wouldn’t – nothing fazes Warren Kepler, the man with an enviably thick, possibly impenetrable skin – but that still only manages to annoy him further. Any normal human would react to this in some way. Even Jacobi, who’s treading the border between human and inhuman like a tightrope, knows that; Kepler, obviously, stepped off that rope long ago, like he grew bored of it.

Bored of being human. Amid his completely righteous rage, Jacobi tells his inner poet to note that down, because he’s never discovered a more fitting tagline for the Colonel.

‘Do you always propose when you panic, sir?’ His tone is dripping with sarcasm, teetering upon venom, but Jacobi knows enough to hold back on revealing any actual anger. He shouldn’t even be feeling that anger: this is hardly a life-or-death situation. For a moment, Jacobi pauses to wonder why he feels it twisting his gut, before burying the thought with more well-placed sarcasm. ‘Wait, do you even panic? Do you panic a lot? Do you have a string of failed marriages I don’t even know about?’

That earns him a level stare from Kepler. Not exactly a reaction, but it’s nicer than directing all snarky comments to the man’s back.

‘No, no. You caught me, Jacobi. Red-handed. I’ve been trying to ask you to marry me for months – and, I figured, the best way to propose would be through a fake marriage set up in a washed-up maritime village on the coast of Italy, during a stakeout, after a day’s journey. Isn’t it romantic?’

Kepler’s sarcasm isn’t exactly rare, but it’s unexpected. Particularly that brand of sarcasm, and it catches Jacobi off guard. There’s a beat, with Kepler’s eyes still fixated on his, before he can respond to it. ‘Oh, Colonel, you shouldn’t have. I would’ve settled for dinner and a big, sparkly ring. There was no need to bring me on a romantic getaway.’ It would have been scathing, Jacobi’s sure of it – had he not paused to yawn in the middle of it. The second half of his retort is subdued, blanketed by the exhaustion making its way into his tone. Betrayed by his own voice.

Kepler’s gaze finally slides away, and Jacobi’s faintly certain he catches the Colonel’s expression softening into a smile. ‘Get some sleep, Mr Jacobi. You can be offended in the morning.’

And, as much as Jacobi is a fan of being offended, he is a much bigger fan of sleep. The invitation is all too tempting. He’s barely kicked off his shoes before he’s crawling under the wonderfully heavy duvet, and crashing headfirst into sleep before he can utter a ‘goodnight’ in the Colonel’s direction.

* * *

 

The sunlight that streams through the window is strong, even when diffused by the thin, cream-coloured blind. The way that the bed lies ensures that Jacobi is trapped in the strongest part of the glare – perhaps it’s supposed to remind him of the sunlit beauty of Italy. Reminding him every morning, at about six in the morning. Jacobi feels as though he could do without the sun entirely, and it’s only the first morning.

This is going to be a long mission.

He groans, and rolls over in an idle attempt to escape the light. In doing so, he throws his arm out to land on the fabric – except his hand meets flesh. The flesh responds with a weak groan: a mixture of surprise, irritability, and tired confusion, and Jacobi yelps. Yesterday evening comes flooding back to him.

‘Did you just hit me?’ The voice coming from his right sounds like its owner hasn’t quite woken up yet, and despite everything, it takes a moment for Jacobi to realise its owner is Kepler. He’s never heard the man’s voice take on such a pleasantly sleepy tone. It’s as if they’ve been waking up next to each other their entire lives, in this very bed, in Amalfi – Kepler just seems so damn comfortable with it. There’s no reason for him to be uncomfortable, he supposes. But it would help a lot if he were.

It’d match the heavy, not-quite-identifiable feeling settling deep in Jacobi’s stomach. Justify it.

He realises that he never responded to the Colonel, and the longer he spends lying next to his superior, the stranger it feels; Jacobi withdraws his arm, using it to prop himself up on one elbow rather than smack Kepler. Sensing the shift in weight, Kepler opens his eyes and sits up in one smooth motion, before Jacobi can get a good look at his sleeping figure.

‘In my defence, sir, I forgot you were sleeping in the same bed as me.’  
‘Hm? Oh.’ Kepler is obviously still half asleep, which is a strange phenomenon to see in itself, and it seems to take him a moment to catch up to Jacobi’s reply. When he does, he responds with a tiny huff of a laugh. Jacobi wonders what he found funny.

‘You’re not used to having people in your bed?’

Oh.

‘I think I’d classify myself as a lone wolf.’ He tries to ignore the fact that he is joking about his sex life, and more specifically, the fact that he is joking about his sex life with Colonel Kepler. Evidently, Kepler seems to be feeling the same awkward aversion to the subject, or he’s just grown bored of the joke; he grins, but does not answer as he swings his legs round and stands up from the bed. He doesn’t speak again, and Jacobi takes that as a cue to move onto another subject. ‘So, what’s on the agenda?’

The immediate response isn’t verbal – rather, Kepler crosses over to their suitcases, still only half unpacked from the night before, and digs through it until he finds a suitably flashy, touristy shirt (with accompanying shorts) to throw at Jacobi. ‘We’re going out. Target’s meeting someone out in the square, we’ll be out to dine at around the same time. A sweet little café.’  
‘Seafood?’  
‘Seafood.’

Maybe this won’t be so bad. An excuse to play tourist, score some free Italian food – even if it is all fish. Jacobi lets his gaze follow the Colonel as he strides to the bathroom, all previous traces of fatigue apparently gone, and allows himself half a smile. It might not be bad at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember to hmu at @colonelkepler on tumblr if you like and/or you want to yell at me about podcasts!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lunch is cut short. Kepler is wearing dad shorts. Jacobi gets called Daniel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my chapters are short, slow, and very slowly approaching date-like scenarios. next chapter will be a For Realsies dinner date. i promise.

It’s just past midday by the time they reach the square: the sun that had so brutally assaulted Jacobi that morning is now high in the sky, which is the brightest blue Jacobi has ever seen. The colour is almost saturated, lightening a little the closer it gets to the sun itself. He’s not sure if he’s ever looked up to a sky that does not contain a single cloud – but there are no traces of white in the blue.

Below the dome of the sky, the square is lined with buildings that feel simultaneously old and new – whitewashed walls are topped with the fiery red tiles of the roofs, and Jacobi wonders how he never noticed such understated beauty last night, even in the depths of his desperation for rest.

On the downside, the place is small. It takes them about five minutes to walk to the square, and Jacobi can see the edges of the town from where he stands on the cobblestones. It feels like you can hear the waves perpetually, as they crash against Amalfi’s tiny bay.

He and Kepler are dressed like typical tourists. Jacobi had asked to be provided with some Hawaiian shirts, but Command had not seemed to pull through, and he’s planning on letting the Colonel know his disappointment about that. Still, this is about the most casual ensemble he’s ever seen Kepler dress in, and it takes a lot of restraint not to stare. There are shorts.

Colonel Warren Kepler is wearing dad shorts.

True, so is Jacobi, but he’s _him_ , and Kepler’s – _Kepler_. He’s almost upset that the man didn’t put on a pair of sandals for the occasion, too.

Kepler leads Jacobi toward one of the cosier-looking buildings, which is furnished with various shell decorations in the window, and wicker chairs and tables outside, painted white and powder-blue. There are shells on the tables, too. _God,_ Jacobi thinks, _there are shells everywhere_. As Kepler sits in one of the wicker chairs, Jacobi remains standing, reaching out to pick up the table’s centrepiece – a bowl full of pretty little shells – and inspect it.

‘Looks like they raided the beach,’ Kepler comments, noticing Jacobi’s lazy interest in the shells. He sounds content, and when Jacobi glances at him, he has a breezy smile permanently set on his face. The Colonel is actually happy to be doing this stakeout. That’s new – usually, Jacobi is well aware, Kepler is just as distraught as him at the idea of restraining himself on the violent explosions. But his superior seems happy in a way that Jacobi hasn’t really seen from him before.  
‘Or they raided Etsy.’ He puts the shells down, slipping into the seat opposite Kepler. ‘How many clams did they kill for the cutesy coasty aesthetic?’  
‘What’s Etsy?’  
‘Oh. It’s – a site, where you buy… oh, never mind. My comedy is wasted on you.’

Kepler still grins. He ignores the shells, now, and instead reaches out to pick the two menus from the stand in the middle of the table, sliding one towards Jacobi. The way he does it makes Jacobi feel like they’re two spies, trench coats and sunglasses and briefcases, passing a top secret file between them. He wonders if the Colonel can do anything without looking like a classic spy, even when sat in shorts and a shirt with a picture of a sunset on it.

‘Stay alert. Apparently, Gustav likes to meet people here, because it’s crowded with tourists.’ Kepler’s murmuring over the top of his own menu, and Jacobi immediately pays a little attention after the abrupt change in conversation. He used to find discomfort in the conversational whiplash you experience with Warren Kepler; now, he’s accustomed to it, and has learnt to pay attention to even the most subtle changes in the Colonel’s words and tone. They all mean something, and Jacobi does not know a single soul who can decrypt the meaning like he can.

This, however, is as obvious as a meaning can be. Jacobi smiles and nods, taking a brief glance to his left before checking his own menu. ‘Place hasn’t exactly filled up with people, yet. Are we buying lunch?’  
‘Of course we’re buying lunch. I’m starving. It will, though – I assume they’re gonna meet soon. When there’s a coachload of holidaymakers to swarm the place.’  
‘Any idea what we’re even looking for? Also, any idea what you’re having?’  
‘Grilled mackerel’s good. Not sure if it’s filling, though. Just look for anything shady. It’s like fine art, Daniel – you’ll know it when you see it.’

He starts at Daniel. Kepler generally has three options, when he wishes to address his right hand man: Jacobi, which he always saw as the Colonel’s most lighthearted and informal state; Mr Jacobi, which always took on a different meaning, depending on the mood of the situation; and Daniel Jacobi, which is exactly as it sounds. Daniel Jacobi is for when he’s fucked up and Kepler wants to use a suitably professional replacement for _young man_.

Daniel has never been on the menu.

Kepler’s not acting like he just went off the scale in informality – next stop would be _Dan_ , and Jacobi doesn’t think he’d ever be able to handle that – but is instead putting his menu down, and already calling over a waitress. ‘No, I think I will get the grilled mackerel. We need something we can eat quickly. I saw a great red shirt over in the market, and I want to grab it before it’s gone.’

Jacobi obediently looks towards the market: sure enough, a man in a red shirt is greeting someone, in a manner that screams _I am trying to make this subtle and casual_. Amateur, really. ‘I’ll take the grilled mackerel too, I guess.’  
Kepler smiles. ‘Good choice. I think you’d like it.’  
The waitress smiles, too, but it’s hardly a smile worth noting like Kepler’s is, and saunters off to prepare their food.

It’s not even ready, however, by the time they have to leave; Jacobi isn’t the world’s biggest seafood fan, so it’s not too much of a tragedy when he sees Kepler getting up. He immediately follows suit. The Colonel, on the other hand, seems disappointed. ‘I really did want that mackerel.’  
‘Maybe next time, sir.’ Jacobi can see why his superior is cutting the lunch date ( _meeting_ , he corrects himself, you don’t want to start calling it a date after he called you Daniel) short, as their friend Gustav is moving. With something in his hand.

Once he’s a safe distance away, Kepler starts to walk after him, looking for all the world like he’s on a leisurely stroll through the sunlit streets. He glances back at Jacobi only once.  
‘Come on, Jacobi. We’ll get lunch later.’  
‘Jacobi? Not Daniel?’  
‘What?’  
‘Nothing. I'll get indignant later.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i literally just put this chapter in to remind y'all they're doing a mission. the next chapter, i presume, will skip to when they've finished stalking this guy, and the mission's practically over. that's when it's gonna get date-y.  
> also, putting kepler in dad shorts was complete self-indulgence sorry it was making me giggle.  
> this is not the last you will see of ... seafood. (not the last you'll sea of it)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jacobi doesn’t think he’s ever seen the Colonel smile this much, before now. Or maybe he hasn’t been noticing until now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter REALLY got away from me in terms of length - i apologise!! i cut it off at a good ending point but there was ACTUALLY an aspect of the dinner i didn't manage to get to, so i think i'm gonna slip it in next chapter. ;)  
> this one gets real gay, if that makes you feel any better about reading all of it.

‘ _God_ , I need to eat.’

Between following a target to his home, watching the window as inconspicuously as he can from the street – made to feel like a lazy stop on the street more than a stakeout, thanks to Kepler’s incessant small talk – and breaking in after the man had gone, to see what they were dealing with, Jacobi has pushed into an ongoing battle with his own stomach. It adds a certain element of danger when you’re trying to ransack a deserted house with a body that threatens to growl at you at any given moment. Kepler, the superhuman that he is, makes no sign that he needs food to survive, and the corner of his mouth twitches up whenever there’s another badly masked pang of hunger from Jacobi’s stomach.

They’re finally done: every file they could find has been photographed, and placed neatly and exactly back where it was. Jacobi suggested torching them and getting the hell out of this town, now that they have everything they need, but refrained from breaking out a lighter upon the Colonel’s insistence. This mission is far from over, he had said. Jacobi has no idea what else there is to do in the mission, but he’s not about to doubt Kepler’s judgment.

Besides, he could use a few more days to soak up the Italian sun. It’s the closest thing he’s getting to a vacation.

Now, they walk side by side through the street, giant and intertwined in their shadows, cast by the low sun. Jacobi’s stomach growls again. Kepler laughs.

‘We’ve been starving ourselves all day. It’s high time I treated us both.’ He pauses, seemingly deep in thought, and glances at Jacobi. ‘How about a dinner date? We’ll find a nice restaurant.’   
Jacobi stops dead in his tracks. Kepler stops with him, but hardly seems to notice the reason they’re not moving, nor the expression on his subordinate’s face – which is mostly perplexed, with hints of surprised, embarrassed, and thunderous.   
‘By nice restaurant, I’m afraid I mean yet more seaf –’  
‘Date?’

_Now_ he’s noticed. Jacobi’s face has settled into just perplexed, though he’s thinking of throwing in some scandalised, for good measure. The Colonel’s features return the confusion in an innocently comical way that really doesn’t suit him.

‘Yes, Daniel. Date. A dinner date, with food, which is something a lot of _married couples_ tend to do.’  
‘We’re not –’ Jacobi is suddenly aware, as he wasn’t before, of the people milling around them. It’s not yet late enough to justify their going home. He cuts himself off, frustration not yet strong enough to tempt him to break the cover that Kepler is apparently so devoted to, and continues in a furious whisper. ‘ _We’re not married._ ’  
‘Don’t make a scene.’ Kepler’s smooth drawl has dropped into a murmur. Usually, the murmur is a dangerous indicator of the Colonel’s mounting fury – an entire room of feuding militants can be silenced by a single word in that quiet tone, and Jacobi instinctively puts whatever thought he was about to think on hold. Kepler has a habit of dropping his voice so low, at times of impending wrath, that you have to lean close just to hear him; doing so carries with it a feeling of being face to face with death itself.

Sometimes, Jacobi gets the somewhat unsettling notion that Kepler got that habit from Mr Cutter.

After a moment, though – after his survival instincts have calmed down – Jacobi realises that Kepler really is just trying to be inconspicuous. The power play has given way to an actual married domestic, and Jacobi fights the urge to laugh at the idea. He has to treat this seriously.

‘Don’t worry, _honey_ , I’m not. I’m just saying.’

Damn it.

The _honey_ only gets an eyeroll from Kepler, who then curls his fingers round Jacobi’s arm to gently drag him down the street. Even after Jacobi stops dragging his feet to annoy the man, his fingers never move from where they’re lightly digging into the bare flesh of his arm. He wishes he’d worn a shirt with longer sleeves. He wishes he’d never stopped, so that Kepler wouldn’t have had any reason to rest his fingers there.

It’s not that he finds it strange, or that he likes it – but not that he _dislikes_ it, at the same time – it’s just that every thought he has on the rest of their journey is dragged right out of his brain. It tumbles through his skull, drops down his throat, and drifts over his shoulder to land in his arm, in the nerves right underneath Kepler’s fingertips.

In short, it’s distracting.

Because of those fingertips, Jacobi's legs run on autopilot until they reach a restaurant that the Colonel deems suitable. It’s much more of an evening place than the café they settled at for lunch, with dim lighting and the softer hum of idle chatter between couples and families. Kepler finally lets go of Jacobi’s arm. He murmurs something sweetly apologetic to the waiter – likely a _so_   _sorry for forgetting to book our reservation_ , during which Jacobi catches the word _husband_ , which scrambles his brain all over again – and within moments, they’re led to a table.

‘Oh, no seashells. I like it.’ Instead of shells, there is a candle, the connotations of which Jacobi desperately suppresses. He does not manage to suppress the fact that Kepler reaches the table before him and pulls out a chair for him to sit in, with a small sweeping gesture and a flash of an indecipherably cocky smile.

As he sits down, he prays that the dim lighting of the restaurant will hide the faint heat threatening to spread over his cheeks. He’s known Kepler to be polite, but never – courteous. Not like that. For a moment, he wonders if the Colonel is a romantic type, before he shoves that thought right to the back of his mind with the candles.

Two menus are brought over, Jacobi’s being handed to him instead of being slid suspiciously over a table surface, and he regards it with increasing pessimism. It really is all seafood. His gaze flicks up from the menu to land on Kepler, who is buried in his menu with all the concentration of a man attempting to defuse a bomb. Trust Colonel Kepler to treat his dinner choice like a life or death decision.

‘So, uh, _sweetheart_ , what’re you thinking of getting?’  
The sound of his voice makes Kepler glance sharply upward, and the only thing that registers on his face is pure, undiluted confusion, before he chuckles lightly.  
‘Sweetheart? Am I your high school crush?’  
‘No, you’re my husband. That’s what they call each other, right?’  
A ghost of a smile, once again, dances momentarily on Kepler’s lips. He arches one eyebrow. He’s obviously amused.  
‘It’s good to see that you’re trying to get into character, _hon_.’ There should not be so much tickled mockery packed into one syllable, Jacobi thinks. ‘But you’re bad at being married. Probably a lack of experience.’  
‘Oh, like _you_ have any experience,’ Jacobi scoffs, before he remembers exactly who he’s scoffing at, and instinctively stiffens a little. ‘Sir.’

Kepler does not deign to respond to that, and instead directs his attention back to his menu. The faint smile is back.

Jacobi doesn’t think he’s ever seen the Colonel smile this much, before now. Or maybe he hasn’t been noticing until now.

Eventually, Kepler puts the menu down. ‘I think I’ll have the, ah… artichoke and shrimp linguine. You decided, yet?’  
‘You know what? I’ll just go with – whatever you’re having. The thing you just said.’  
‘Wonderful.’  
Within a few moments, he’s called a waiter over and placed their order; before Jacobi is able to specify which drink he wanted, Kepler’s also asked for a bottle of wine, with a name Jacobi can’t pronounce, and a price far out of his own budget. Their menus are taken back, and Jacobi prepares to lapse into that comfortable silence that tends to settle between them. But Kepler speaks again.  
‘It’s Warren.’  
Um – ‘What?’  
‘At least, while we’re in public, you shouldn’t be calling me sir. Colonel Kepler is also a little formal. You have my – ’ He appears to hesitate for a fraction of a second. ‘ – _permission_ , to call me Warren.’  
‘…Right. And you call me Daniel. Like we’re best friends forever.’

Not all of Jacobi’s associates call him Mr Jacobi: he’s not in that kind of profession. No military rank, no massive amount of influence or authority. He remains hidden away underground for the better part of each day, carrying out research and testing his powers of destruction – and in a place like that, there’s a certain closeness between fellow researchers. Most of them call him Daniel. Even Maxwell is on a first name basis with him, and it’s not like they spend a lot of research time together, playing with slightly different toys in the playground.

But Kepler has always been closed off to that kind of informality. He can – and does – make Jacobi feel like he’s his only true confidante, one hand planted squarely on the surface of the real Warren Kepler. He’s come closer than anyone else.

And yet, all this time, Kepler has never called him Daniel.

So, Jacobi feels that it makes sense for him to feel some kind of animosity now, now that such a line has been crossed in the middle of a mission. Now that the Colonel is allowed to pick and choose when to shorten the gap between them, and he’s not.

‘Like we’re _husbands_.’ Kepler corrects him, and he’s almost thankful to be snapped out of the chasm of bitterness he was about to spiral into. The bottle of wine arrives. Jacobi finds that he is unable to read the name as well as pronounce it, but he doesn’t need a firm grasp on Italian to understand that this is a very deep red, very expensive, very _romantic_ wine.

Something flutters in his stomach, and Jacobi is in equal parts thrilled and horrified to find that he’s getting _butterflies_. This isn’t the exotic date he imagined, and it certainly isn’t the person he imagined he’d have it with, but it’s a date. Even if it’s fake, he’ll allow himself to enjoy it. He tips his glass towards Kepler, who obediently pours the rose-red wine into it, before pouring himself a glass while Jacobi watches. He's pleased to discover that Jacobi's expression has set upon a soft smile to mirror his own.

‘Okay. Fine. Warren it is.’ It could be the wine he’d sipped before he spoke, but something about the name seems to roll naturally off of Jacobi's tongue, calming and electrifying all at once. Daniel and Warren. Warren.

If he didn’t know any better, he’d say the name again, a thousand times over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapters are all planned out by the way - so hopefully they'll be coming at a slightly more regular schedule.  
> for updates on publishing as well as my doodles and other works, hit up my twitter @colkepler! (named like that bc i made it specifically to accompany my tumblr lmao)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A moment of intimacy to avoid a close call.

Mercifully – or perhaps not – the dinner is not cut short by the need to chase a target. The hours stretch on, the two men remaining in the restaurant far longer than they had planned to, and even after they’ve eaten all they could eat and ran up the bill by a good few hundred euros, Kepler keeps their glasses topped up with fine wine.

The Colonel has always shown such _delicate_ restraint when it comes to drink. When Jacobi’s around him, he feels the need to mirror such a quality, the temptation to knock each glass back quelled by the price tag on the bottle, and the knowledge that he’d be getting drunk in front of his boss-slash-husband. Still, while very graciously sipping his new portion of wine, the thought occurs to him –

‘I’ve never seen you drunk.’

Kepler’s eyebrows shoot up a significant fraction, as if Jacobi has just uncovered a scandal. There’s a tint of amusement in his smile. ‘Have you not?’  
‘You’ve got a permanent glass of booze in your hand, and yet, you’re never drunk. You’re – a _responsible alcoholic_.’  
His face twists a little disdainfully at the word _booze_ – Jacobi’s sure he would’ve preferred a more fitting description, such as a glass of single malt Balvenie twelve year doublewood scotch whiskey – but the vague amusement soon returns.  
‘All good things in moderation, Daniel.’ He looks as though he’s making some grand remark on the philosophy of life, lifting his glass to regard the red of the drink in the light. It’d seem as though Kepler forgot about Jacobi’s presence entirely, uttering that old proverb to himself, if not for the Daniel shooting a spark up Jacobi’s spine. ‘Lest we get carried away.’  
‘Great quote, but I prefer getting carried away,’ Jacobi says. Kepler smiles again.

Something in that smile makes Jacobi feel like he’s failed him, somehow.

‘Maybe someday,’ he replies. ‘But not today.’  
That evidently signals a cue for the end of the evening, because Kepler’s calling a waiter over for the bill. It’s paid for with company money, but Jacobi still barely supresses a wince when he sees the bill, garnished with a mint with a little smiley face on it. The nerve.

A testament to Kepler’s generous nature – at least, his willingness to spend as much of Mr Cutter’s money as possible – is the sizeable tip he leaves the waiter, before getting up. When Jacobi stands to join him, the Colonel rests a hand gently on Jacobi’s arm (he stifles a yelp), and leans in close. Far too close. His lips nearly brush against Jacobi’s ear, and Jacobi goes rigid, like a rabbit in headlights.

Or like a schoolboy, getting attention from his crush.

‘I saw him outside the window,’ Kepler whispers, voice not even making it to a murmur. ‘I think he might have seen me looking at him. But he’s going somewhere.’  
Jacobi nods, and relaxes. As quick as he had leant forward, Kepler draws his head back and unhands Jacobi’s arm, and swiftly turns to leave the restaurant with a courteous nod and a smile at the waiter who had served them. Jacobi is at his heels, raising his hand in an awkward half-wave at the waiter as he follows. He’s thankful Kepler didn’t see.

When they make it outside, Gustav’s back is turned to them, but he hasn’t gotten far. He’s strolling. It puzzles Jacobi that a man on his way to shady business would take such a leisurely pace about it, but Kepler doesn’t seem surprised.

They maintain as much distance as they can without losing sight of their man; even so, the sense that Gustav will turn around, lock his eyes on theirs, follows them down the street. They inch closer. With every few steps, the gap between them closes further; when Jacobi glances over at the Colonel, his face is etched into a picture of urgent concentration, not registering Jacobi’s look. They get a little too close, and suddenly Kepler is pulling back, hand clamping onto Jacobi’s upper arm – again – and the other hand is reaching for his shoulder, pushing him back. Jacobi hazards a look at Gustav, and catches his eyes as the man turns to look at them.

The hand shifts from Jacobi’s shoulder to his jaw, catches it, and forces his eyes back to Kepler. His back hits a wall. Kepler’s face is ever so close to his, and he has no idea how it got so close. He can trace every path in the man’s skin at this distance: the faint scar tracing over his upper lip, the slight dusting of what seems to be becoming stubble, the more prominent scars pushing through tufts of greying hair to tear across Kepler’s temple like jags of lightning. He hasn’t gotten close enough to pick out the details in them, before. He follows the lightning, down to where one line strikes, just next to the beginnings of laughter lines. From the laughter lines, he slides into Kepler’s eyes. There’s something fierce and amused all at once in them – a glitter, a lazy confidence lurking beneath the dilated black holes of his pupils, and something else that Jacobi can’t quite recognise.

As soon as his gaze pauses there, Kepler kisses him.

There are no fireworks to accompany the shock. Rather, there’s a hum in the back of Jacobi’s brain, a rising cacophony – or is it a symphony? – of thoughts all racing upwards, forwards, crashing like so many waves into the front of his skull. A faint hint of the wine returns to Jacobi on Kepler’s lips, the taste of a barely-formed memory, and Jacobi tries to think of Gustav, of the mission, of anything but this moment. He realises, with a potent mixture of horror and ecstasy, that Kepler is a very good kisser.

‘ _Jesus_ ,’ he hears Gustav mutter, and wonders how their target summed up every single one of his present thoughts so eloquently. He hears him mutter again, something about _fucking tourists_ , and still his brain is flooded with Warren Kepler – it stays that way, until his superior finally pulls away. It feels like it’s been an age, but not much seems to have changed. Only, Gustav is no longer looking at them. He’s walking away. Kepler’s watching him.

His gaze slides sideways to land on Jacobi – who is still in a state of shock – and there’s something sly in his eyes. That’s what was there, before they kissed, Jacobi realised. It was sly. Calculating. Was that it?

* * *

 

As it turned out, Gustav wasn’t strolling towards some seedy deal. He eventually just makes it back home, and at this point, the Colonel finally calls it quits. They’d been walking in silence: a small mercy, as it gave Jacobi precious time to recover from the glitter in Kepler’s eyes and the wine on Kepler’s lips. Now that there’s no paranoid mission to be attending to, the silence is broken.

‘It’s a good cover,’ Kepler says, at last.  
Jacobi is snapped out of some form of reverie, in which he’s idly considering whether you can tell what someone’s been drinking when you kiss them. Someone, generically, as a half-hearted attempt to draw his thoughts away from the specific someone this applied to.  
‘Huh?’  
‘Being married. Kissing becomes a failsafe for when things get too close for comfort.’

Too close for comfort. Jacobi wants to scoff; of course Kepler would do this, take something as romantic as a kiss, pull it apart, _analyse_ it. As if romance were a business model to dissect.

‘Is that all it is, to you? I know you’re married to the job, si- Warren? But that sounds like something I need to stage an intervention for.’  
Kepler grins. It doesn’t meet his eyes. His eyes that, annoyingly, Jacobi now can’t stop noticing. A pale brown, like murky water – unfathomable depths, opaque, except for when a gleam of light sends sunlight shooting through. Jacobi looks away.  
‘It’s professional. I wasn’t aware you wanted me to play the poet about this.’  
Jacobi doesn't answer.

They reach the hotel, and by this point, the sky is a deep velvet, studded with stars. Kepler draws ever so slightly closer to Jacobi, and something within him jumps at the new proximity, but he does not react. He’s not sure how to piece any of his thoughts – which have been racing ever since that deep, red kiss – into any words, much less words that would make sense to the Colonel. For Kepler seems to be completely at ease. He doesn’t say another word to Jacobi.

Jacobi collapses onto the bed as soon as they step back into their hotel room. He sprawls across the covers, face pushed into the pillow, and waits expectantly for the sound of carpeted footsteps accompanying some snide remark from Kepler, but the man doesn’t comment. There’s a brief silence, during which Jacobi can’t bring himself to lift his head from the pillow – not even to peer at Kepler’s expression.

‘I need to call Cutter,’ is the next thing Kepler says to him. The name is enough to inspire Jacobi to push himself around and up into a sitting position, quirking an eyebrow at his superior.  
‘To tell him how great we are at being married?’  
That earns a chuckle. A genuine-sounding one, which is rare enough to make Jacobi’s heart leap at the sound. Or something less cliché.  
‘Something like that. I need to tell him how the mission’s going, so the _honeymoon situation_ is bound to come up.’  
Jacobi simply grins, and nods. Upon the nod, Kepler makes a move; it’s as though he needed Jacobi’s dismissal, his permission, to go have this conversation with their mutual boss. Which is a little unnerving.

Once Kepler leaves the room, Jacobi’s thoughts pull in several directions at once.

The kiss had meant nothing. Of course it hadn’t. Jacobi is so certain of that that he refuses to even entertain the idea that it could have – because Kepler is obviously unaffected, and that means Jacobi, too, is unfazed. It’s only surprising that the man could kiss so well: urgent and demanding, obviously an impulse, and yet, gentler than Jacobi would have imagined someone like Kepler to be. It was as if his superior was holding back. Well. He would be.

And there’s not a chance, thinks Jacobi, of such a kiss being anything more than that. He rubs a hand across his forehead, sighs, and gets up to get a glass of water. He would order something _richer_ – surely, Goddard Futuristics would not mind if he made use of the room service – but alcohol, particularly wine, seems a little off the menu. He wonders, lazily, where the Colonel may be going to make that call to Cutter; or what he may be saying, if Jacobi’s not permitted to listen in on a conversation about his own mission.

As much of a hold he may think he has on Kepler’s life, his motives, his mind, moments like these remind Jacobi that he exists in a state of forced ignorance, when it comes to the man he thought he knew best. Just when he thinks he’s at least begun to navigate the murky depths of Kepler’s eyes – a _kiss_ , and he’s thrown back into darkness, unanswered questions resounding on all sides. And yet, he feels ever closer to some kind of epiphany concerning Warren Kepler. There had been a glimmer in those depths, right before the Colonel had leaned in to kiss him. And though something about it feels _off_ – perhaps even hopeless to scrutinise – it feels like an invitation. And, against his better judgment, Jacobi resolves to dive in deeper.

He kicks his shoes off and shrugs off his jacket before he settles into bed, placing the now half-empty glass of water on the bedside table, hoping to wait upon Kepler’s return. Within five minutes, he’s slipped into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next chapter will be a bit of an abrupt change of pov, to warn you! well - not abrupt. we'll be seeing kepler's side of the story.  
> so - in terms of chronology, basically the same scene we see in this chapter, but from kepler's perspective. so we'll be seeing that call he makes to cutter.  
> will take a while, because exams, but thank you for being patient!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kepler gives Cutter a mission report.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hate ao3 this took so long to upload bc of the bugs. also, exams, holidays, etc etc, so i'm real sorry this came out so late!! i hope you enjoy even if it is late!  
> maxwell will be making an appearance soon don't worry

Kepler is walking along a hotel corridor, steps muffled underneath the thick patterned carpet, towards a door marked as emergency exit. He presses a palm to the bar on the door, pushes it open, and steps outside onto a metal staircase. The night is quiet. He climbs.

The roof is not the most conventional place to call your boss – he’s not sure if guests are supposed to be up here, anyway. Probably not. He looks up at the sky. It’s still dotted with stars, the same constellations he’d silently picked out and admired as he walked a drowsy Jacobi back to the hotel. It’s not every day that he gets to admire the sky with so much time and so little light pollution; it’s a luxury, he fears, that Jacobi won’t appreciate. He resolves to teach the man some constellations, so he can see the stars when he looks at them.

But, for now.

Kepler draws his phone from his pocket and unlocks it. It’s a burner, designed to be disposed – a smart-looking device, but a burner nonetheless. It contains three numbers: Jacobi, Maxwell, and Cutter. Kepler’s finger hovers uncertainly over Maxwell’s name for a moment; it’s not like he needs to call her on a mission that should require no amount of hacking, but a misplaced pang of friendship leaves his finger to stop at her name. A lot has happened. He wants to catch her up on it.

But it’s not his place to catch her up, and it’s not her place to know – though he’s got the itching feeling that Jacobi’s going to inform her about the mission’s events soon enough. He moves on, hesitates only a few moments before clearing his throat pre-emptively and tapping Cutter’s name.

Calling him is always an ordeal.

He waits only a few moments for the phone to ring before the office on the other end picks up, and Kepler idly wonders how much international calls will cost as he begins with a monotonous _Mr Cutter, sir,_ before he’s cut off by a grating voice. Calling Cutter is an ordeal, but it’s not as bad as calling _her._

‘Colonel Kepler,’ she says, the bright address underlined with an ever-present hint of contempt, ‘what a pleasant surprise.’  
‘Miss Young.’ He silently begs for her to take mercy and transfer him to Cutter soon. ‘Unpleasant surprise. Where’s Mr Cutter?’  
‘You call me unpleasant and then ask me a question?’ She tuts. Kepler’s not sure if he’s ever heard anything more patronising – as if she’s scolding a misbehaving child. ‘That level of charm will get you precisely nowhere.’  
He stifles a groan. Rachel says nothing, but he can somehow hear her grinning. ‘Fine. Anything you want, as long as it’ll get you off of the phone quicker. My dear Rachel Young, would you happen to know where Mr Cutter is, and if so, could you please tell me?’  
‘Better.’ She sounds satisfied with his level of grovelling, and he hears the creak of a chair as she leans back. ‘He’s certainly around.’  
Kepler pauses, waits for her to continue. She doesn’t. ‘Could you… let me talk to him?’  
‘Oh. Oh, right. Silly me. This is about the –’ She rifles through some papers on the desk. ‘– Amalfi, yes? How’s that going? Killed anyone, yet?’  
‘No.’ At this point, he’s speaking through gritted teeth – an inevitable stage in any conversation with Rachel. ‘I think I said I want to talk to _him_.’

Before Rachel can reply, Kepler is saved – a term he never thought he’d use regarding Cutter – by a distant voice. Its tone is just as bright as Rachel’s, yet somehow, even more dangerous.  
‘Rachel? Who are you talking to?’  
A sigh. ‘Kepler. He wants to have a chat about Amalfi.’  
‘Warren!’ The voice is louder now, as Cutter approaches, and Kepler registers a note of glee in his voice when he says that name. Rachel hands the phone over, no doubt reluctantly, and Kepler suppresses the sigh of relief.  
‘Mr Cutter. Sir.’ He’s back to the formalities, the lilt in his voice raised only slightly above monotone. ‘I’m reporting about –’  
‘Amalfi. I know.’ Cutter sounds amused, and Kepler’s quietly thankful that he’s caught the man in what appears to be a good mood. ‘Get on with it, then. How’s it been?’

There’s a pause, that seems to stretch on for several minutes, while Kepler considers the question. He rounds out a brief outline of the mission in his head: arrived, told everyone he was married to his second in command, shared a bed with his second in command. Lunch, dinner, a kiss.

Of course, the actual stakeout was happening, between spots of fake romance. He tries to think about the mission in terms of the target, not in terms of Daniel Jacobi. Business.

Besides, even the romance – that had been business. In his years of experience, Kepler has never known a cover more efficient than love. People are so gullible, so taken in by the prospect of witnessing true love, that they almost refuse to let themselves see past it. A kiss is enough to fool anyone. And yet…

‘It’s been fine,’ Kepler says, and realises it’s only been a few moments. ‘Going about as well as we expected it to.’  
‘Good!’ His superior draws out the word, and for some reason, it makes him feel like Cutter’s not convinced. ‘But I’m gonna need you to be a tad more specific.’  
‘…Right. Of course.’ I was getting to that, he wants to say, but the irritable sentiment shows in his voice without the words to betray him. ‘We’ve been consistently observing the target, we’ve… managed to find his house.’  
‘Wonderful.’ Now Cutter sounds more genuine, and it annoys Kepler more than it should to find that he gets a familiar jab of pride at that one word. ‘Did you run into any complications?’  
‘We got a little close for comfort, one point,’ Kepler murmurs, and attempts to repress any thoughts of Jacobi that might bring up. ‘But our cover was good enough to get rid of any suspicion.’ The cover, he decides, is unimportant.

The cover was a kiss, he doesn’t say; charged with a building adrenaline from chasing a target, the thrill of the hunt, and perhaps a little buzzed from the wine, he had kissed his right hand man. It doesn’t look good. Kepler can concede that it wasn’t entirely necessary – there are a million other distractions you can pull on short notice – but something in his mind chose that, specifically. He’ll call it curiosity.

It is, after all, curiosity that drives one man to kiss another for his reaction. To push Jacobi against a wall underneath the darkening sky, to drink in the bewildered look on his face as if it was water to a dying man, then to lean forward and taste his lips. There was wine, though Kepler’s sure that was in his own mouth, too, and the faint lingering taste of strawberry from the lip balm Jacobi always wears.

Only curiosity drives a man like Kepler to kiss a man like Jacobi during a mission. Curiosity killed the cat, he thinks, and is reminded of Cutter on the other end of the phone.

‘Your cover must be very good,’ Cutter purrs, and if Kepler didn’t know any better he’d assume his superior already knows about the kiss. There’s another pause, like Cutter is waiting for something, Kepler to speak again, but he doesn’t. After a few long moments of silence, Cutter simply hums.  
‘Have you gotten what we need?’  
Kepler thinks back – to the house, to the photographs they had taken of all those documents and blueprints and God knows what else, he’d have to look through it all himself to figure out what it all is – and something tells him there’s nothing else to it. Like he’d told Jacobi, in an office that now seems weeks away, this is a quick job. Torch the house, perhaps, and get back to Cape Canaveral. All he has to do is say _yes_ , and a return flight will be arranged, and this impromptu honeymoon will be over.

He looks up. The same constellations peer out at him from the wisps of dark cloud. If he pays attention, he can see Orion, and his lips twitch into a brief smile at the sight. He still hasn’t shown Jacobi the stars, and this is as good a chance as any. He wonders what he’ll make of them. Curious.

Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back –

‘Not yet,’ he hears himself saying, and feels the jolt of fear embedded in the lie. That feeling is unfamiliar. ‘There’s a little more intel I think I can get out of him. Didn’t exactly get the full tour of his house.’  
‘You don’t usually need it.’ The good mood seems to be dissipating more by the second – without realising, Kepler’s begun to pace on the roof, squirming to get away from this conversation before Cutter senses that something is off. ‘You’re usually quicker than this.’  
‘I know,’ Kepler says, more mutters, in reply, and he longs to rewind to the singing notes of praise he’d been hearing mere minutes ago. ‘He’s… better, than we thought he’d be. Smarter with his secrets.’  
Another pause, long enough to let the painful dread twisting Kepler’s gut crawl upwards through his throat, and he feels as though it’ll force its way between his gritted teeth if he’s not careful, burst out in a garbled apology of _yes, sir, of course I did what you asked, and of course I did it even quicker than you expected me to_ ; Cutter speaks again before it can.  
‘Okay. As long as you get it to me.’ The disbelief Kepler thought he heard in his superior’s voice has simmered down to mere irritation. No less dangerous, on a man as temperamental as Mr Cutter.  
‘Yes, sir.’  
‘Oh, and, Warren?’  
Kepler pauses before he can pull the phone away from his ear and hang up. ‘Yes, sir?’  
‘ _Quickly_.’  
Ah. ‘Yes, sir.’  
‘I’ll _miss_ you, Warren.’

Kepler doesn’t answer. Waiting half a second to make sure Cutter has hung up, he lowers the phone, slips it back into his pocket.

Of course, those final parting words – as innocent as they seemed – were a warning. Cutter is a man who means what he says and says what he means, and what he means is very often unsavoury. He’s not given to saying words for the sake of words; every phrase from his mouth is dripping with meanings and layers, and if you understand them, you pass the test. Kepler often does understand them. He wouldn’t dare say he _knows_ Mr Cutter, but he’s not stupid – and he’s gotten closer than most people can say they have.

In more ways than one.

I’ll miss you, Warren. Be home soon, Warren, or you _will_ be missed. That sounds about right. He’s certain, too, that such a wistful tone was deliberate – the smooth, pining intonations of a lover. It plays on his loyalties, and the bastard knows that.

Still, for now, he has time. Precious few days in which to push this curiosity of his to the limit, find _satisfaction_ , before such loyalties tempt him back to Canaveral with a crooked finger and an _I_ _’ll miss you, Warren_. He has time.

Curiosity killed the cat, and satisfaction brought it back – to the stairs, descending, and slinking along the corridor until he reaches his room. Their room. He pushes the door open quietly; as he suspected, Jacobi’s already asleep. Sprawled across the bed with a half empty glass of water on the table next to him, mouth open, snoring a little. The sight draws a crooked smile from Kepler.

He undresses and slips under the duvet beside his subordinate. As if by reflex, he reaches a hand out, the backs of his fingers come close to brushing against a faint scar on Jacobi’s cheek – strange, faint as it is, Kepler can remember exactly how Jacobi got that scar – but he stops himself. Curiosity can only get so far before loyalty stops it. He lowers his hand, lets it drop lightly to the mattress, and pushes all thoughts of cats and Cutter out of his mind.

Sleep now. Jacobi later, and Cutter… eventually.

Within minutes, Kepler is asleep and dreaming.

**Author's Note:**

> this thing might be updated pretty slowly! i'm so so slow at writing anything. still, it definitely will be, and it'll probably be quite a few chapters because i have a lot i want to get through.  
> my url on tumblr is the same as my username here, http://colonelkepler.tumblr.com, if you wanna be a wolf 359 and/or kepcobi hoe with me


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